Four Weddings and a Proposal
by vyrastra
Summary: Hermione reached across the table and hit him. "We're not friends. Stop staring at my chest," she said huffily. "Ow! What, so you only let your friends have that privilege?" Good snarky DMHG fun & other interhouse shipping.
1. Author's Note

**A Note Before Beginning: **

The story starts on Chapter 2! So click "Next," if you please.

Chapters 1 and 2 as they were originally conceived are much happier as one multipart chapter, so I have changed it accordingly. This story starts rather slowly, and I still haven't figured out how to remedy that to my satisfaction. So if you read the first bit and were unimpressed, consider giving the joined two-parter a new go. My reviewers tell me it comes more into its own. :) I hope you'll like it yet.

Anyway, it's been a six year hiatus, but the DMHG plotbunnies are finally back! You might have known me as "trieste," but the old penname felt like a ball and chain... There's more writing under these new auspices.

I'll try to keep this to a regular update schedule: a chapter a month at the least.

Ship spoilers: DMHG, RWPP, HPGW, NLLL, BZLL, NLHA.

Legal Disclaimer: All characters and recognizable elements from the Harry Potter series, in this and all following chapters, is owned by JK Rowling. To whom we give thanks.


	2. June 25, 2005: Potter Wedding

**1. June 24, 2005 - Potter Wedding, Day 1**

"Nice little rehearsal cocktail, this," said a voice to her left, by a table of refreshments. Hermione turned around with a vague smile, about to agree. It was a very pleasant and important June afternoon, to be outdone only by the day to come, and the silly little dress that Ginny forced on her for today was proving surprisingly tolerable in the sun. She harbored no intention of being provoked or scandalized. Then she looked again at the speaker and paled completely.

That smirk! She'd know it anywhere, even without the anti-glamour coating on her sunnies.

"My god! Just what do you think you're doing here?" Hermione dropped her voice to a hiss, her glare making up for the lack of volume.

"I beg your pardon?" The man she'd addressed had swapped the smirk for offended indignation. He was rather tall and chiseled, with longish, waved hair of a deep chestnut and blue eyes so dark they were almost violet.

He looked like someone's platonic ideal of a handsome man, thought Hermione with an interior eye roll. "Oh please. Come on, out with it! Why are you here? You'll be lucky if I don't have you thrown out in the next ten seconds." She reached toward her wand pocket ominously.

"I'm afraid you're rather mistaken," sniffed the man, taken aback but doing his best to appear unperturbed. "…I suppose I'll have to introduce myself now, won't I. Well. Philip Parkinson. At your service."

"You're very good at making a courtesy sound like a chore."

"We must take the world as it presents itself to us." He smiled drily.

"Be that as it may, _Malfoy_, again I say you'd better come off it and explain yourself." Hermione was heading straight into Danger Granger territory. The object of her glare seemed unfazed.

"Flattered as I am for the misrecognition, Miss Granger, I believe I made it quite clear. My name is Philip. I'm here with Pansy. I'm her brother."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "If you're a Parkinson then I'm a snorkack. Pansy's elder brother's name is Penn."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Goodness me, little miss War Hero is awfully well read up on the pureblood gossip pages." He narrowed his eyes. "Has it ever occurred to you Pansy might have _two_ brothers?"

"She doesn't," said Hermione flatly. "I know because back during the War we had all your lot checked out and monitored, and I thought Penn was a stupid name."

Draco snorted. _Oops, laughter_. "All right, fine, it _is_ a stupid name. Why do you think I chose Philip?"

"You're ridiculous. And mean-spirited. And stop going on tangents and answer my question! What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"What, when you say it it's fine but when I say it it's mean-spirited? Oh please. Calm down, Granger, lest you look like a raging Pomeranian."

"I am NOT a Pomeranian!"

Well, he hadn't said she _was_, precisely. She was just making it so easy for him. "No? But you're so good at yapping." He waited for a second while she emitted a loud squeal of indignation. "See? There you go again."

She whipped out her wand and pointed it into this chest. "Shut up and start explaining," she said, gritting her teeth so that it hurt.

"Okay, okay! I swear upon the peacocks that I'm here as a perfectly legitimate invited guest, with Pansy, exactly as I said."

"'Invited,' my dead aunt Sally."

"Granger!" He looked scandalized at the expression. "Fine, I'm Pansy's plus one. That still counts as invited, I'm pretty certain; at the very least, it means I'm not prohibited. Perhaps you can put your wand away."

"No such luck. What in the world is Pansy doing with an invitation? I vetted all the guest lists myself last month!"

He paused. "Wait—so you really don't know about Pansy?"

"What? What's there to know?"

"They…haven't told you?"

"Told me what, ferret?" This was getting actually really annoying.

"Well. Hmm." Draco had a rather bad feeling about this. He surreptitiously felt for his wand before continuing. Granted, Granger's was still digging into his chest, so it probably was a lost cause. "Pansy, it would seem, has found herself a wizard."

Hermione watched him sharply. "Yes. Listening."

"The wizard, it would seem, would be in attendance at this wedding."

"Listening, your excessive use of the subjunctive notwithstanding."

Draco winced. This was going to get worse before it got better. "Well, when the wizard who is in attendance at this wedding has a vested interest in having his new girl show, as it were,—"

"Oh for god's sake yes, that's all very well, but unless it's Harry himself having a last secret affair before he ties the knot, it's not like any old attendee can get a mysterious plus one who then gets _her own_ plus one!"

Silence.

"It's not actually Harry," she said tightly.

"No."

Sigh of relief. "Okay. Okay, of course not. So then who is it?"

"Oh, well, I suppose it would be…the best man...?"

"RON?"

Draco winced and closed his eyes, then opened them.

To Hermione's credit she did not appear to be hexing anything in the near vicinity. Draco spoke very gingerly to keep it that way. "It's, um, a bit of a shock for all of us, yes." Two months ago.

Her face had gone a bit weird. Very stiff, as if you saw an expression, and then after two inches it was rock all the rest of the way down. Well, at least Granger was holding it together, Draco thought. Or hoped.

"All right. So you're…here with Pansy. And Pansy—" she almost choked—"is here with—Ron. That still leaves the question, _why_ are you here in the first place…?"

Now this was kind of embarrassing. Draco tried to put on his bored face. "Look, for a variety of reasons I would rather not go into, but which touch on the regard in which my parents hold me and the accessibility of my fortune, I, out of self-preservation, sometimes have to be Pansy's bitch. Broken engagement or no." It did not sound any prettier out loud, he was annoyed to discover. "And this time she wanted someone less, shall we say, likely to be hostile to sit with her while her, um, _wizard_ was up on stage being best man in the ceremony." Draco inspected his nails. "Penn is heir and doesn't have to do her bitching."

"That sounds suspiciously truthful, and suspiciously like something Pansy would do."

"Yes and yes. Brilliant deductions, Granger. Another O for your OWLs it is."

"Stop it! Too soon after the shock. Not ready to be ribbed again yet."

"Right. Sorry," he said.

They stood for a ridiculous moment, not making eye contact.

She sighed and bit her lip, cheeks still a little flushed. "Okay. So…. How did they get together in the first place?"

Draco winced again. "I don't think I should say."

Hermione bristled. "No, you absolutely should!" She crossed her arms. "Look at me! Nobody tells me anything! They acted as if I was a teenaged kettle about to go off with all these dumb little bits of news!"

Right, because that wasn't at all happening now, either. "Granger, I think Pansy would kill me."

"That's great, because I _know_ I would kill you if you don't cooperate!" She grinned menacingly. "Oh, wait, who has all those incriminating photos and other complicated classified files that so deeply implicate the continued existence of one Draco Malfoy?" She licked her lips, probably entirely unconscious of the move, and happily continued. "ME. I DO. Respect me, Malfoy, like you've never respected anyone else. Or so help me god if your free life ends without you learning much."

"Fine." Fucking Granger the Junior Minister. He grimaced, then nodded. He was sort of impressed by her willingness to abuse her precious power. "They met through a…wizard matchmaking service of sorts. Pansy had a rather long list of requirements. They sent her on a blind date."

"A blind date. And they stayed through it, both of them."

"Well, a _blind_ date, as in blindfolds." This was not technically untrue.

Hermione was getting very frustrated. "Okay. This isn't making any sense. What can you do with a stranger on a date if you're blindfolded for the duration?"

Damn it; he'd really thought he'd had it handled. "I, uh, wouldn't go too much into the details, Granger, if I were you."

"Nonsense. What was it?" She frowned and worried her lip. "I just need to know so I can wrap my head around it, is all!"

"Believe me, Granger, you don't want to wrap your head around this."

"Malfoy!"

Fine. Draco grimaced. "Perhaps it would be, um, less confusing if we stopped thinking of it as a, er, conventional date."

For a moment she looked more puzzled, then her eyes widened. "Oh god." Her mouth opened in disgust. "Oh _god_, that's just…"

"Try not to think about it too hard, Granger," Draco advised helpfully. He _did_ know what she was going through. He'd gone through it too, just it was two months ago, instead of now at Harry's wedding.

She made a small squeal of distress, like some small woodland creature confronting a wall of Death Eaters.

"Look, I don't think it was necessarily meant to _be_ anything, at first," he said, trying to be helpful.

"Stop it! Not helping!" she wailed.

He winced.

"Ron was supposed to _be my date_," she said after a minute. Her eyes were big and watery, like a kicked puppy's.

"You're quite sure about that?"

"Well of course I didn't _ask_ him, what was the point? It's all platonic anyway." She covered her face in her hands. "Oh, god… I really can't handle this right now! The press is going to have an absolute _field day_ tomorrow. Bloody Rita Skeeter!"

"Oh come on, Granger, I'm sure you're exaggerating."

"I am NOT exaggerating! _You _don't know how it is," she said, prodding him again with her wand, "Merlin, I can see the headlines now—_MUGGLE HOPEFUL JILTED FOR SLYTHERIN PRINCESS_: _POTTER WEDDING MARKS NEW ERA_, et cetera! Oh, my god, this is unbearable."

Draco stifled a laugh. "They won't even know you planned to go with him, I'm sure."

"They'd still see me dateless! Then it'll be _COUPLE OF HAPPY COUPLES; GROSS GRANGER LEFT IN COLD_ or something equally unreasonable and offensive."

Peaches. "Look, Granger…"

"And if I'd just _known_! Thomasson in Mysteries has been after me to go out with him for weeks now; it would've been so easy…"

"Erik Thomasson." Draco raised an eyebrow. "Interesting."

"Yes. Sure," said Hermione absently, mind racing. There had to be a way out! she despised the press too much for this humiliation.

And then, inspiration.

She whirled on him. "Never mind. YOU. You will be my date."

She was going to get very, very drunk. And she was going to _enjoy_ it.

* * *

**2. June 25, 2005 - Potter Wedding, Day 2**

A little over twenty-four hours later—or as his pocketwatch proclaimed, "Serious Witching Hour," Draco stood up from the almost-abandoned table.

The marquees had been magicked to replace grass with slate tile underfoot, and were arranged around a central square open to the night sky, and a Muggle swing band—soon to be Obliviated, but for now, playing in the corner.

The rest of their table—the new Potters, Ginny's Holyhead Harpies friends Robin and Gwen, and Pansy and Ron—were all somewhere out there. There were also many pretty witches swaying by themselves, Draco and his pocketwatch were sure, just waiting for his generosity of spirit. Everyone was probably drunk enough by this hour that they wouldn't notice should Granger's "date" get busy elsewhere.

"I'm going to stretch my legs for a bit," he announced.

Granger gave him a long look. "Okay. Tell me more about this dating agency."

"Wait—what?" It took him an annoyed second to remember what she was talking about.

"The 'dating agency,'" she said with a stubborn look on her face. "I want to know more about it. I still think your story has some holes."

"Holes." Merlin, the woman never let a thing go, did she? "So the sight of, oh, a ruddy-faced Weasel snogging Pansy after she caught the bouquet didn't convince you like it did all the rest of the audience in attendance?" She must really be grieving pretty hard, somewhere under all that prickly platonic feeling, thought Draco with a twinge of pity.

If she was too drunk to properly glare, she was not so for sniping comebacks. "No, you Ron-jealous twerp, I mean I don't believe that's how they met."

"No, of course not. Actually they've been clandestine lovers for these past ten years," he said drily, "since before the War ended, even. What, didn't believe that Weasel was cheating on you all that time?"

She was silent for a moment.

"That's not nice."

Draco scanned the room quickly, picking out all the prettier-seeming single witches that he could see. There were really a lot of them. Excellent; at this rate he might even get to go on to adequacy of mental content.

"I'm serious, Malfoy."

He glanced back at his fake date. Oh, bloody hell. A sad drunk if he ever knew one.

"Oh, for— Come on, buck up, Granger," he said, restraining himself with an admirable effort from adding that her teeth had certainly done so.

"I_ have_," she said plaintively.

Draco sighed, took one last longing glance at the dancers, with the fairy lights and the pleasantly tipsy, smiling, nubile women, and sat back down resignedly. "Okay, fine. The bloody so-called dating agency." A server passed and he motioned for him to bring some water. "It's called _Sibylla's Pure Sex Destiny_, if I remember correctly, and it was—at least a few years ago—on an unwritten but strict pureblood-only policy."

She went very quickly from pathetic to pathetically intrigued. Draco watched her squirming curiosity with a vague enjoyment. Pansy had assured him he was not going to sleep lonely tonight. Blasted merprinces, but if he was, at least he would should get to make Granger as uncomfortable as possible, Draco thought with increasing satisfaction. "First they give you a code name—a handle of sorts—and you fill out a rather lengthy questionnaire detailing your particular _kinks._" He paused and gave her a meaningful glance. "Then they match you based on that and your other preferences."

"You know an awful lot about this place," she said, red-faced and suspicious.

"There were lean years," he deadpanned.

"Past tense, I see. I'm so impressed."

Even through the alcohol she was blushing like mad, he was pleased to see. Ordinarily he grew annoyed with women when inebriation failed to shed inhibition. But Granger was pretty entertaining this way.

"They were fun for a while. But my tastes were ultimately a bit higher than Weasley's."

She gave him a sour look. Draco smirked.

"In any case, Pansy seems to have had a very long and specific list. It was a bit of a miracle that they found some match in the end. How your Weasel came into it is anyone's guess; I suppose he heard about it from his mates as a good way to get an adventurous hook-up or some similar. Luckily there's no rule against being poor."

"Whatever." She pursed her lips, ignoring his last statement. "That's still the dumbest matchmaking idea I've ever heard. Call it what it is, a glorified sex ring, and leave it at that."

This was going to be good. "Well, the premise is not _entirely_ unreasonable, Granger," Draco said with exaggerated reasonableness, grinning at her obvious discomfort. "Most people fall in and out of love all the time anyway. Who knows—a truly spectacular physical connection might just provide the motivation necessary to do all the drudgery of keeping a relationship going."

"Still think it's horrid. And absurd. And—and I don't care how short-term 'satisfying' an 'encounter' is, it's still absolutely meaningless."

"Even if, as in this case, one imagines it must have been very satisfying indeed," said Draco innocently. "Perhaps you have a point. I doubt it."

She frowned and flushed still further at the same time. The red had blotched its way down from her cheeks all the way to the dip and curve of her décolletage, generously exposed by what were, no doubt, regulation-Weaselette bridesmaid gowns. As maid of honor, Granger had been allowed to have a longer skirt than the others, but apparently had to make up for it by baring as much if not slightly more chest. It was a state of things he could live with, Draco supposed. She was not _entirely_ unshapely, if he were honest with himself, and in any case he supposed it was the nature of man to probably be able to observe the heaving bosoms on animate corpses and still be generally content.

She reached across the table and hit him. "We're not friends. Stop staring at my chest," she said huffily.

"Ow! What, so you only let your _friends_ that privilege?"

She ignored him and crossed her arms across her chest to block it from his view. "You were being incredibly ungentlemanly and crude."

He snorted. "I've been the soul of tolerance. Recall that you put me up to this."

Crossing her arms was succeeding only in pushing her breasts up, Draco noted. He must make sure no woman ever found out about that particular subversion of intent.

"You haven't acted like a 'lady' once all evening. Or yesterday, for that matter."

She stood up. "Oh, shut up!" She'd moved so abruptly that her chair skittered back across the floor with an unpleasant noise and fell over a half a foot away.

"Fuck, Granger, sit down!" he hissed. People were staring. Draco motioned her into an adjacent chair and handed her the glass of water he'd called for her and ought to have passed to her sooner.

She'd had substantially more than he thought. And she was red-faced, and looked more than ever like she was about to burst into tears. Draco resigned himself to his fate with a sigh.

"Come on, it's late, Granger, let's get you home," he said, righting the chair with a wave of his wand, and standing up after the hubbub had died down. He took hold of one bare shoulder and guided her up.

"I'm fine," she said, brushing at his hands. "I'm perfectly lucid."

"Perhaps. You're clearly not in _control_," he said, rolling his eyes. "But sure, whatever." He walked them slowly over the lawn toward the apparition point. "Do you have all your things?"

"My things?" She looked upsettingly blank.

"Oh for fuck's sake. Never mind."

She stumbled slightly on a rock and he grabbed her elbow before she could lose her balance entirely. "Where do you live?"

"Why would I tell you that?" she said crossly.

Merlin, this woman! "Because, oh you _clever_ Granger, I don't think you can apparate yourself right now. And as deeply as I'd enjoy the papers the next morning, heads would roll—mine, particularly—were to have splinched yourself in the crossing."

"Perhaps. But I don't trust ferrets with private information like that," she said, sniffing.

It was incomprehensible how she could be so drunk and so uselessly articulate at the same time.

For a moment he could only stare at her in exasperation. Did she think he _wanted _to leave the party, the alcohol that _some wizards_ were capable of handling, the pretty girls, the fun? Was she stalling? Did she have a death wish?

"Fine. Then we'll go elsewhere," he said at last, gritting his teeth and grabbing her as the familiar squeezing sensation began.

—

Hermione awoke in almost pitch-darkness. Her body felt very warm—there was some sort of luxuriantly soft and fluffy comforter twisted around her—but her extremities were freezing. No doubt her fingertips had woken her up, she thought, grumpily. Fingertips were stupid things.

As she shifted she realized it was the room that was freezing. She groaned and stumbled up, almost tumbling off the high bed, and headed toward the thin sliver of light at what could have been the far end of the room. Where was her wand? Where were her clothes, for that matter? Not that she'd liked the bridesmaid dress all that much, but it was disconcerting to wake up wearing something different than what one had lain down in.

She picked at the light fabric of her nightgown and kept going toward the crack of light, running into things and stubbing her toe liberally along the way. After what felt like a minor lifetime, she reached the door and threw it open.

She immediately wished she had not.

"GRANGER!"

Hermione flushed bright red, backing out of the bathroom with furious haste and slamming the door shut. Then she stood in the total darkness for what felt like a very long minute, petrified and mortally shamed.

Finally the door opened again, revealing a now only _half_-naked Malfoy silhouetted against the bright light, a towel wrapped securely around his waist but his hair still dripping water.

He gave her a long look where she still stood rooted. "Not one for moving around, are you."

She was pink-cheeked and couldn't meet his eyes. "It's ridiculously dark. I couldn't have gone somewhere if I'd tried."

"Where's your wand, brightest mind of our generation?"

"Wherever you put it, O ferret of our age," she said accusingly.

Draco suppressed a smirk at that. She really was remarkably irrepressible. Drunk, sober, or scared to death from just having seen the splendor of his full nakedness, the girl could really deliver a line.

He summoned a dim light into the room and wandered over to the chair where he'd remembered seeing his house elf deposit her gown. "I don't see the wand."

She was still quivering on the threshold of the bathroom, poor thing. "It should be in my robes. In, ah, the bosom area."

_Really?_ He felt for it, and to his great surprise, found a long, slim line of wood tucked in a strange little pocket that ran exactly down the center of the bodice. He handed it to her wordlessly, resisting the urge to inspect it.

"There's not a lot of room in a dress like that," she said defensively, cheeks flaming as she took the wand back.

He raised his eyebrows. "I haven't said a word," he said, and picked up another towel and turned away as he dried off his hair. Merlin, she probably had _no conception_ of how unbelievably sexual that wand placement was, he thought rather amusedly as he stepped back in the bathroom to put on a dressing gown.

He reemerged, noticing she had a sort of odd hungry look on her face. "Do you want something to eat?" he asked casually, sauntering over and opening the heavy curtains that had covered the windows.

"No," she said, in such a small voice he should have teased her about it.

"Really? You look sort of hungry." He leaned against a heavy, thick, marbled pane of glass and opened it.

"Don't do that, it's freezing!"

"It's not. You're just cold. Which, by the way, usually means you're hungry."

"I'm not," she said again, more insistently this time. "It's probably just lingering effects of the alcohol. It lowers your body temperature."

"Oh yes?" He said absently. The grounds were so lovely this time of night. The moonlight frosted it all over, so everything looked gossamer, ethereal and wispy. He snapped his fingers for Pettie. If Granger hadn't been so bloody drunk, he'd be rising now after a long, satisfying romp with a pretty witch, no doubt, who'd be very impressed when he pulled this opening-the-window routine and would see him as some sort of aloof, repressed Byronic hero, dreamy and ethereal.

"Stop standing by the window like some sort of pasty Byronic hero," said Granger at that exact moment. "You'll catch a cold, even if you don't care that I do.

He winced.

"Granger, must you make everything so…profane?" he asked, gesturing helplessly in her general direction.

She was about to reply when a quiet crack announced the arrival of his elf.

"Good evening, Master Draco," she said, "what can Pettie do now?"

"Hello, Pettie. Could you bring us some scones and lemon tea, and possibly some cut fruit?" He said it lightly, enjoying the obvious way Granger's eyes bugged out at this sudden development.

"Ours's pleasure, Master." She bowed very quickly and very low, like a wobbling top, and sprang off into midair with another crack.

The room went silent.

"What's the matter, Granger, elf got your tongue?"

She exploded. "You absolute PIG! I said I didn't want anything to eat, and now here you are waking up your poor _slave_ at this ungodly hour and demanding tea! and scones! and _cut fruit!_"

Draco practiced his most innocent look. "What, would you rather I asked for cakes and ices?"

Granger had balled her hands into fists already. It would have been charming if she hadn't been so unstable. "NO! Where do you think you get off, talking to a house elf like that these days? Or _keeping_ one, for that matter!"

"Cram it, Granger," he said lightly. "Don't tell me you didn't notice she was wearing a real shift, not some tea doily. Also, you know very well that time doesn't mean anything to house elves in the traditional sense."

She shook her head furiously, like she didn't want to hear it. "It's no use arguing with you, you bigoted freak. What kind of a name is "Petty," anyway? Did you name her? Did you call her that to—oh, I don't know, grind the confidence out of her, 'you're so petty, ha ha, Petty?' _God_, you people—"

"I named her _Pettie_ because I got her when I was a child and she was a child, and I thought she was little, _Petit_, as in the French," he said, suddenly very cool. "I've very compliantly offered her her freedom every time the Ministry passes a new law about it—which is often, I'm sure you're aware—and each time she refuses to leave and is so offended that she promptly bursts into tears." He stopped and considered. "Which _you're_ also about to do right now, and shouldn't. Pettie will be back in a second and will be frightfully embarrassed, and probably think it's her fault."

Hermione promptly burst into tears.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Granger—"

She was guided, or rather, pushed, onto the nearby bed, and the large lofty comforter was bunched up against her again.

He stood for a moment watching her blankly as Hermione fought to push her sniffles down.

"Look, is it that time of the month?" he asked finally.

"What? No!" said Hermione vehemently. "Absolutely not. I don't know what you mean."

"Oh bollocks, don't be such a prude." He gave a look full of cool disdain. "Well, what is it, then? Is it Weasley?"

"No," said Hermione easily. An enormous sob broke from her. "Not—not at all, nothing—farther from it—"

She heard him sigh loudly and then begin to pace, soft, even footsteps thudding back and forth across the floor, now nearer, now far, varying by sound depending on whether it fell on bare wood or carpet. It was oddly calming, she thought, and struggled to seize onto that detail and snap out of it.

Abruptly she felt him sit down next to her, about a person's width of space between them. "Look, Granger," he said at last. "It's not worth it like this, all right? It's—your best friend and your other best friend just got married, and it was a lovely ceremony and nothing went wrong, and everything was moving and pretty"—_including the girls_, he thought wistfully—"and for goodness' sake, now your other best friend whom you'd refused to date for—what, two, three years?—has finally gone and found himself a nice girl who really values him—unlike somewitches I could name—leaving you finally free as a bird. And you're sobbing about it. Honestly, Granger, what gives?"

"They didn't tell me! And Pansy's not a nice girl!"

He sighed. "She's not a nice girl _in bed_, Granger, or on the street, I suppose. But I can assure you Pansy's a nice girl," he said drily. "She's cut from the same mold as that—what was her name, that ugly blonde bit from Gryffindor who kept slobbering his face in Potions and making you jealous back in sixth year—"

Hermione sucked in a breath. "Lavender. Lavender Brown."

"—as Lavender, and honestly? Weasley's the kind of bloke who needs someone who'll do that for him, suck his face in public and slobber all over his kisses, and cling to him and tell him what a big strong sexy boy he is, with maybe a little emotional abuse on the side," he said. "You are, I don't know, the antipodal opposite of what a fellow like Weasley needs. Don't cut him up for finally figuring that out, is all. Does that make sense?"

It made far too much sense. It made the kind of sense that she would have admitted to herself, actually, in a week or three. Dubious as Hermione may be about Pansy's supposed "nice girl" tendencies, she supposed she should trust Draco when he said that she was one. After all, Pansy was Draco's friend, and he must have cared about her happiness, even if Ron and Hermione herself were nothing to him. And, speaking of that—

"Why are you doing this?" she asked plaintively.

Hermione felt him stiffen immediately. "Doing what?"

"This. Taking me home, offering me food. Talking to me."

He was silent for a moment. "I—I guess it's the decent thing to do, I suppose," he said. "Fake date or no."

She snorted. "Draco Malfoy doesn't _do_ decent."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Well, not in bed," he said—predictably, this earned him a punch—"but honestly, Granger, you never did know me very well." He paused awkwardly.

"In fact, frankly, I think your precious Potter has a much better notion of who or what I am than you." He continued without waiting for her response. "Yes, I think it's from something that happened during the War. No, I'm not going to tell you what it was. People only see what they want to see, and honestly, you probably knew it all already, you just didn't think anything of it. But Potter remains a painfully optimistic idealist. He never misses a chance to read good into people if he can help it."

"'Good'?"

"Excuse me. I meant 'his values.'"

Hermione chewed on that for a moment. "So you think Harry knew that you were here tonight."

"And yesterday afternoon, sure. I don't think I fooled him for a second. I think Pansy didn't even bother trying, with him."

"Then who was all the faking for? Nobody would have dared object, if Harry had officially said you were okay."

He gave Hermione an amused look. The moonlight caught him from one side, and the dim warm light in the room lit him from the other. It made the shadows disappear on his face, bringing out the fine cheekbones, the nose, the elegant brows, the hair in tones of silver and spun gold.

"Well, for Weasley, I suppose—not everyone remembers their Death Eater research; he actually thinks I'm Pansy's brother. And for you." He smirked. "Ironic, isn't it."

"Oh. Yes, very." This gave Harry's surprise, and then amusement, when she first showed up to rehearsal dinner with "Philip" in tow, a whole different set of meanings.

They sat in silence for a while.

"It's not fair," said Hermione at last.

"Indeed, no."

"You don't even know what I'm talking about!"

"No, probably not."

She sighed. "Look, you're doing it again!"

"Doing what?"

"Being obnoxious!"

"Ah. And I here I thought was just now getting praise from you for taking such good, generous, decent-human-being care of you and having all sorts of insights into your tangled little psyche." He grinned. "Ah, I've got it—that's what's unfair, isn't it? That someone so 'completely horrid' as myself could also be so thoughtful and interesting and nice? Is that it?"

Hermione sat fuming in silence. He was smiling _exactly_ like the Cheshire Cat. whom she'd always had very strong, mixed feelings about.

"I'm going to bed," she said.

"Sure." He looked satisfied with himself.

Hermione frowned and waited. "Well, where shall I go to bed?"

"Oh funny, I thought you were going to insist on going home again. I wasn't going to bother rescuing you from splinching this time. I'm done here."

"Fine. I'll go, see if I don't!"

Hermione hopped off the bed, strode purposefully toward the armchair, and promptly banged her knee into an end table she hadn't seen.

"That's a stupid place for an end table."

"It takes one to know one, I guess."

She whirled around and glared. "Can you stop for _one minute_, Malfoy! No, I'm not a _stupid end table_."

He'd meant _stupid person_, as in, stupid person who put the end table in its unfortunate location. But he wasn't going to explain that.

Really, too easy. "Whatever, Granger."

"You know what? You win." She crossed her arms and faced him. "Draco Malfoy, I will humbly appreciate it if you will let me crash in one of the many, many rooms of your extremely large mansion for the night."

"Mmmhm." He inspected his nails.

"Malfoy! Seriously! Where shall I sleep?"

"That was the worst apology ever, Granger, but since I'm more interested in getting rest than forcing you into an early grave by having to admit your bad behavior, I will answer your question. You can sleep right here."

She stared.

"Allow me to enlighten. The portrait right outside my door, presently, is one of my dear deceased Aunt Bellatrix. Do remind me again how fiercely you appreciate each other."

Oh. There wasn't much she could say to that.

"You can sleep on the bed," he finished grandly.

"With _you_? Oh, very likely not, I should think—"

"Merlin, not like that, don't get your knickers in a twist, Granger. Fine, I'll sleep on the—" he looked around the large but rather sparsely appointed room—"armchair. I guess."

"Oh." Hermione tried and failed to tamp down on the feeling of guilt. "No, okay, you sleep on the bed, it's your stupid bed, anyway. You shouldn't have to sleep on a chair because I'm here."

"Granger, perhaps I must remind you you're a girl. Suppose I'm old-fashioned, all right?" he said wearily. "I'll conjure up a cot or something."

She still looked dissatisfied.

"_Fine_." He groaned. Nothing was worth this amount of headache. "Fine. We will share the bed. You will sleep on your half, and I will sleep on my half, and we will lay Godric's sword in the middle lest I am seized with the horrible urge to conceive hybrid-Gryffindor babies, all right?"

"There's no need for a sword, Malfoy, we're not children. I trust your word," she sniffed.

"Oh, so you do now." He wanted to rip his hair out.

—

Half an hour later, Draco was still extremely awake. Beside him, from the soft sleepy noises he heard every few minutes or so, he could tell that Hermione was extremely asleep. Damn her.

She was right. The room _was _cold. Granted, usually he had some bit of blanket to ward off the cold with, unlike currently, when he had none. He grimaced. Trust Granger to hog the blankets.

The insufferable witch had probably had everything she'd ever wanted handed to her on a platter. Sure, she worked hard, but she worked and got _results_. So many people tried hard and got—nothing.

Here she was, doubtless once somebody's beloved, lavishly praised, emotionally spoiled daughter, and now also toast of wizarding England, best friend of the hero of the age, already a ranking Ministry official, and all just because she happened to be blessed with good brains and good courage and, increasingly, good looks—none of which were to _her _credit, really—and had just happened to impress the right people years ago on a red-and-black train. It all hit a little hard sometimes, a little close to home.

And, of course, now she had to take all the blankets.

Draco gritted his teeth and pulled hard. For a moment, purchase.

Then Hermione murmured something, and then rolled herself up tighter, like a warm little sausage of down and girl.

That was it. He didn't care what happened anymore. He wanted some of what she had.

He scooted over to her half of the bed—good thing there was no sword after all—and began trying to unwrap her. It was hard work and slow going, because she was very adept at yanking back in her sleep and he couldn't get over his irrational fear of accidentally waking her. Finally he'd made a hole-shaped thing in the blanket sausage that was large enough to shimmy into. He was freezing and past caring; he dove gratefully in.

Ah, warmth. Her back was pressed against his stomach and chest and there was an incomprehensible amount of hair in his face. How had he forgotten about the bush? So maybe she had figured out how to keep it a little better tamed these days, or at least for the wedding, but it was still an inexcusable omission.

He conceded that it was soft. And it smelled nice—like vanilla; or peaches and honey. Gingerly he lifted it up, out of his face, and then smothered it with his pillow. That would do.

But now where were his arms going to go?This was so much more complicated than usual, when he'd just drift off on his back and the pliant, sated belle du jour would just drape herself obligingly in some manner over him. All right, one arm could slide under the pillows. What about the other one?

He held it aloft in the air for several seconds, feeling absurd, and finally let rest with gentle finality on her body, settling in the graceful curve of her waist and, quite naturally, gently cradling her stomach through the fabric of her gown. Draco's face burned a bit and he felt rather weird about it. She would probably hex him in the morning when she found out, if they wouldn't have moved by then. Oh well. The expression on her face would probably be worth it.

If he could just get past the fact that he was holding someone he couldn't stand and who would quite possibly want to curse him into next Saturday upon waking, Draco would admit that it was actually comfortable. Very comfortable. Immensely so. He would have to try holding someone like this again.

He noted with chagrin that in an odd way Pansy had technically prevailed about him not spending the Potters' wedding night in a "lonely bed."

* * *

AN

Guys. Really, I thought I outgrew asking for reviews. But god help me, this story has the worst ratio of favs to revs of anything I've EVER written. Now why would you add something to favorites without a word to tip off the wider world? C'mon, help me get my momentum back. :) There will be prizes (more & better stories!) for the weary.

Thank you. :)


	3. July 14, 2005: Lovegood Longbottom Weddi

**3. July 13, 2005 – Lovegood-Longbottom Wedding, Morning**

"There's three sprigs of maids'-malice in the bouquet," remarked Luna as Hermione and Ginny busied themselves with their last little errands around the tent. "I don't think I can get married today."

Both women stopped and stared at her incredulously.

Luna smiled patiently. "Maids'-malice is bad luck to weddings. It's possible that I can't get married today," she explained again to her bridesmaids.

"Luna?" Ginny made a face. "Look, if a flower's bad luck or something, I think Harry's got a vial of Felix Felicis on him somewhere, maybe. Don't worry."

"Oh, I don't think that will make a difference," said Luna. "But I'll do whatever you like."

Hermione fought the urge to groan in exasperation at Luna's studied passivity. Was it possible to be an impossible bride by being too _not impossible_?

The tent flap rustled and Ron stuck his head in. "Oy, you three hurlyburlying in there, what's up with the rumors about it all coming off?" he demanded, scrunching up his face at Luna's perplexingly untroubled countenance. "Look, I'm not that worried about the guests," he said after a moment. "But you've got some serious damage control to do, if you want Neville to make it through without fainting."

"Who's going around saying it?" asked Hermione suspiciously.

Ron blushed. "Well, er. It's Pansy, Zabini, and Ernie... So, okay, maybe not the most authoritative sources ever," he admitted. "Still, that's a lot of mouths going off just ten minutes before you walk, Luna!" he said, turning to her. "And trust me, there's a lot of people listening."

"Well, it was a foggy morning, after all," said Luna reasonably. "There are bound to be lots of glumbumble bees around. People will get confused, with that."

"Um—" Ron looked like he was going to say something, then bit it back uncomfortably. Ginny interrupted.

"Okay, whatever. Look, we need to kill this now." She and Hermione shared a determined look.

"If one of us goes up to the front and announces that the ceremony will proceed exactly as planned in ten minutes, the other can get Neville's boys together to start mingling surreptitiously to squash the rumors from the ground. And we should check on Neville," concluded Hermione.

"I'll get the boys and Neville," said Ginny efficiently, already halfway out the door and pushing Ron before her. "You do the announcement?"

Hermione nodded. "Luna, you'll be okay here by yourself?"

"Yes," said Luna serenely. "Don't worry, girls. Nothing bad will happen."

Hermione smiled doubtfully and made her escape. Wasn't she just complaining about the wedding-killing flowers? Luna was a dear—but how she managed to reconcile the strange things in her head was beyond her.

Outside, witches and wizards were wandering across the Lovegoods' broad, flower-spangled lawn, some sitting already, others mixing and helping themselves to the lemonade and saffron cakes laid across a long table. Hermione thought of a lot of ways something bad could happen as she walked between the rows of garlanded benches set up on the grass.

At the front of the little gathering she stopped, took a deep breath, cast a _Sonorus_ and began her little announcement, trying to look as confident and unperturbed as possible. "Um. Hello, everybody. Hope you're all having good mornings," she said as brightly as she could manage. "We'll be starting _on time and_ _as planned _in about fifteen minutes, so please find your seat and be ready to go before then. And, uh, enjoy yourselves in the meantime!"

Abruptly she ended the amplification charm and slunk away as efficiently as possible. _Um, enjoy yourselves in the meantime!_ She was a good public speaker. What had _happened_ out there? She went straight for the lemonade table, wishing it were spiked, and also that Xenophilius had not insisted that every food item served be yellow.

"Wow, Granger, what happened out there?" He found her in the same place as he had two weeks before. "You sure like your drinks tables."

She whirled around. "You again!"

"What, missed me on the guest list again?" Draco said drily.

"As a matter of fact, it was Ginny's job. And, no doubt, her oversight."

He gave a wry grin. "No, I'm here as a last-minute plus one again. She wouldn't have seen my name."

Hermione sighed and rubbed her temples. "What is even the point of vetting these lists, if nobody ever sticks to them?"

"Come now, Granger. Be nice. Shouldn't you be thanking me for bailing you out _and _taking care of you after the atrocity that was your behavior last time?" His eyes narrowed. "I haven't heard a word since your gracious exit."

She had fled the awkward scene in the morning without a word, or even waking him. It had troubled Draco inordinately, and then troubled him for troubling him. Well, that was what you got for extending unnecessary olive branches.

He watched as she immediately flushed a brilliant shade of red. "I already sent you an apology. That's over," she grumbled, not meeting his gaze.

"No, you sent me a small sack of unwanted galleons. It's not over. And mine is the opinion that counts."

She grimaced. "Look, Malfoy, back off. I've done enough. I—look, I closed the investigation on your properties in Birnam Wood, and got the restrictions lifted on the two sites suspected of illegal bowtruckle breeding. Okay?" She looked at her feet. "You'll get the notice next week, I imagine."

For a second he felt genuinely taken aback. The investigation had been a steady drain on his time and attention—as well as his still-restricted funds, considering the reluctance of the post-War ministry to get their grubby fingers off of whatever was rightfully his. "Well. Thanks, then," he said faintly, after a moment.

"Sure. Fair's fair."

The atmosphere was going insupportably in the direction of sincere and uncomfortable, thought Draco, watching Granger studiously inspect the hem of her robes. That wouldn't do.

"I'm rather surprised a junior minister would be so willing to throw away her principles to pay back a debt, though." He prodded her shoulder to emphasize his words.

Hermione flinched. "Oh, stop it. You know I didn't do anything wrong," she said sullenly. "The charges were absurd and we all knew it. Who in their right mind would ever try to breed bowtruckles? The whole investigation was clearly a publicity stunt to throw you lot into the mud again and maybe swipe a galleon or two out of it."

So much for getting a rise out of her, thought Draco with mild disappointment. Of course, she was right, too. Once again, Granger had foiled him with good sense.

Granger had seized the lull in the conversation to mumble some excuse and duck away, and he watched as she slipped into one group, then another, until she disappeared into the canary-colored tent with Luna again.

"Pining already?" drawled Blaise's voice at his immediate right.

"Fuck, where'd you come from?" Draco shrugged irritably. "If this is what you call pining, you'll need a better copy of _Interpretive Guide to Humans_ soon.

Blaise shrugged. "I'll have you know I aced Muggle Studies."

"Yes, by shagging muggleborns," said Draco. He scrutinized his friend's face. "How's the plan going?"

"It was going great, but it just got smashed by Weaselette and your little girlfriend here."

"Huh," said Draco. "I'm sorry." He was. He glanced over at Longbottom, sweaty and pale, and sneered privately. Since the War the boy had "blossomed," by some accounts, into a more confident and competent man, but that was not saying much given what there was to start from. "Their children will be so inept and dysfunctional, I don't even know where the Sorting Hat could struggle to put them."

Blaise winced.

"Oops. I certainly didn't mean to reinforce the now-certain eventuality of their impending childbearing to you so very vividly, there."

"Look, save it," said Blaise. "Just put to use those _superior wiles_," he said half-sarcastically, "and help me out before it's too late." There was a tightness around his mouth that belied the lightness of his words.

Blaise looked like he was going to be sick, Draco observed. Deep, deep down in his cramped little heart, flickers of worry stirred. He tamped them down and nodded. "Calling in your masters at last? Old Slythie never imagined what a way of life it was," he said, drily and rather grimly.

Blaise gave a disdainful snort, not bothering to dignify it with reply.

Draco looked around the space, taking note of a multitude of invisible factors. He had minutes to get a plan, and they couldn't fail again. "There's quite a lot of glumbumble bees around."

"Yes? And that will be helpful, will it?" asked Blaise impatiently.

"Well, they tend to drive magical equines into a frenzy," said Draco, with a glint in his eye. "Don't I recall you bragging, once—maybe fifth year—that you owned a herd?"

—

Ten minutes later, Ginny stood smiling and a little teary-eyed just inside the tent. "This is it," she said, and Hermione nodded with her and gave Luna a last encouraging squeeze. "See you at the front," she said, taking Ginny's arm.

They slowly made their way to the low, flower-strewn platform raised before the little congregation, where they took their places beside the waiting boys. The morning was still misty but the sun had come fully up, and the lawn glistened and shone beautifully as the swaths of pearly fog glowed in the light. Neither noticed the two empty seats toward the back of the audience.

The music swelled, and at the end of the aisle, exactly on cue, Xenophilius appeared with Luna on his arm. Hermione smiled, at last allowing herself to believe that it would all go off all right in the end. They walked down the aisle, Neville standing as straight as the moment he wielded Godric's sword all those years ago, seeming to calm and brighten with every nearing step. The wedding was small but well-attended, and guests at the aisle turned to smile appreciatively as Luna passed them, with a dreamy, calm smile on her face. Hermione felt the butterflies in her stomach and was impressed yet again, and a little frustrated, with her friend's superb imperturbability as she walked to where the little group stood waiting. In just another second Luna would arrive in front—there was Professor Sprout in the audience, wiping a tear from her eye, and just in front of her Mr. Zabini, Xenophilius's old Hogwarts friend. Now they were at the Weasleys. George was in the aisle seat and Hermione could just see him leaning over to give Luna a pinch. Hermione opened her mouth to hiss at him. The words were drowned in her mouth as a great gasp and shrieks arose from the back of the group.

Thestrals, she realized with the old inadvertent recoil of horror. Eight or nine of the creatures were barreling through the assembly, knocking over garlands and upturning people and chairs because they were too wide for the aisle, headed straight at the bride transfixed in the center of their path.

"Luna," cried Hermione as she leaped forward, reaching for her wand. "Protego!" she heard someone shout, and a wall of blue light rose up around Luna before Hermione could do the same. White-blue sparks jumped as the first thestral's hooves struck sparks against the charm, then it went up, up, and over the bride, launching into the sky. A leathery form shoved past Hermione in a blur of wings and long flowing hair, and she tumbled to the ground. The wedding was in uproar.

She was hauled up roughly by the arm. "Wand out, Granger!"

"I'm trying," she ground out, scrabbling frantically at her pockets, her wrist, all the usual places. "I can't find it!"

"Dress robes!" she heard the voice roar in her ear, and she flushed and grabbed her wand at the same time. Of course.

"Protego! Stupefy! Stupefy!" Blue and red light shot out from the trusty vinewood; nearby two rearing thestrals tumbled to the ground. In another minute, most of the other thestrals in the yard had been grounded, too, or had escaped into the sky. Gingerly Hermione leviosa-ed a struggling foal, half hit by the body-binder hex, away from the pile of chairs where it had corralled itself.

Thank god the current robe style, with that abominable bosom-storage method, had not come into vogue until after Voldemort had finally been killed for good, or she would not be here to see the day. Yet another reason to have the damn things abolished for good, Hermione thought sourly.

The body that had been standing beside her slammed into her suddenly and she stumbled sideways just as a stray flash of bright light skimmed the space she had occupied a second ago. "You again!" She scrambled up, tugging down her robe where it had flown up and reddening. "This is all your fault, isn't it," she said, shakily pointing her wand at Malfoy.

"Shut up!" He was livid. He grabbed the tip of her wand and pushed it aside. "Merlin's sake, Granger, _pay attention_! Are you actively trying to throw yourself into the path of every Stupefy bouncing around here?"

She gaped at him.

"Oh, bloody—_encorum mobilius_," he muttered angrily, turning away from her and aiming at the thestral foal before she had a chance to respond. Suddenly it was struggling freely, its wings unlocked and able to move again. Hermione gulped and ended the levitation spell, and the small batlike creature flapped gamely off into the sky to join another larger one.

Hermione did her best not to meet the gaze of her—was it really _rescuer_? Again?

"Er, thanks," she managed at last, rather abashed.

He gave her a look. "For the love of competence. Go away for a minute, and when you return, return Hermione Granger."

She blushed deeply and frowned. "Look, I'm clearly off my game. I can't tell whether that was a compliment or a grave insult."

"Let's see. You press me into acting as your date for two interminable wedding dinners celebrating the people I abhor most in the world, require my constant pity and attention, get yourself embarrassingly soused, require my services in taking you home, refuse to reveal your home to me so I perforce take you to mine, disturb my evening routine, take my favorite pillow and _all_ the covers—" he glared heatedly at her—"yes, all, don't you dare deny it—and _leave without a word of thanks in the morning_. How do you think I mean it?"

She stared at him transfixed. "I—I have to go check on Luna," she stammered out. "I—"

Her lame escape was cut short as a fist slammed into the side of Draco Malfoy's head.

He reeled backward, cradling his jaw.

"FUCKING MERLIN, DRACO MALFOY!" Blaise Zabini grabbed Malfoy's wand hand, attempting to wrest the slender hawthorne rod from his grasp. "I ASKED YOU TO STOP THE WEDDING, NOT TO KILL THE BRIDE!"

"Zabini, shut it, you're—" Malfoy shut up as he dodged another furious blow.

"Shut YOU, YOU INCOMPETENT MORON! IF I HADN'T BEEN THERE WITH A SHIELD CHARM—"

"Bloody hell, Blaise!" Draco ducked wildly. "Some help here?" he hollered into the gathering crowd.

After an astonished secon, Bill and Ron were at Zabini's sides, just soon enough to stop the hex he was about to cast. When he felt their hand son him Zabini quieted suddenly.

Hermione felt a wrench as she looked at him. He must have realized what he'd said, what the others had just heard in his outburst.

Neville pushed his way to where they were, looking ashen again. Hermione's heart twisted as she realized what was happening.

"Za—Zabini. Is this true?" he said stiffly. Despite the way Neville had come to fill out his height, all muscle and sturdy frame, Hermione was sure she had never seen him look so frail.

The slenderer man looked away. "You'll what—duel me?" He grimaced. "Don't worry, Longbottom, I never stood much of a chance anyway."

The crowd went very quiet as suddenly every attending member realized what Hermione had moments earlier. Xenophilius and Pascal Zabini, standing side by side, each stared ahead unseeing. Neville looked stricken. Luna was nowhere to be seen.

"What are you intentions toward her?" managed Neville at last.

Blaise snorted and did not reply.

"I—I love her, you know," said Neville, suddenly quietly confident. "I thought I would do anything for her. I still would," he added defiantly.

"But now I—now I see a lot of things which didn't make sense before that do now."

Zabini remained silent.

"You love her too, don't you," said Neville, with abrupt energy. "I can tell now. I wouldn't have believed you, but it makes sense—"

"Enough, Longbottom!" Blaise said. Then more quietly, "Look, be good to her." He stopped. "I'm—" he struggled with the word—"_sorry_, then, about all of this." He shook off the two men holding him back, all emotion slipping off his face as he steeled himself to walk away from the assembly.

"Wait—Zabini, it's not up to us."

Yes, thought Hermione—of course! Where was Luna? she thought, berating herself. She pushed off into the crowd to find her.

"What?"

Neville tried to smile, then settled for looking pained. "Did you even bother trying to ask _her_?"

"There was no point," said Zabini, easily and sourly.

Neville shook his head.

Neville's grandmother jumped up from the crowd. "No! Stop, Neville, you fool boy—"

"Gran!" said Neville, with such authority that she fell silent. He turned back to Blaise. "We need to ask Luna. I know what she's going to say, but that's what we do."

"I see... So hell-bent on dragging me through the mud, Longbottom," said Blaise bitterly.

"I'm not."

"Don't make me face her," said Blaise suddenly, his voice cracking. Then he suddenly went pale and expressionless as he realized that Luna had already stepped out from the crowd and was walking their way.

Hermione led her friend and watched as she stopped beside Neville. Tenderly, Luna laid her hand on his cheek. "You're exceptional, Neville," she said, her eyes wide and uncommonly bright.

He closed his eyes briefly against her palm and smiled. "I just wish—" he began, then stopped as she smiled tremulously back at him.

"No," she said. "I know." She shook her head, smiling and pained. Zabini looked stunned beside her.

"It's not your fault, or my fault, or anyone's," said Luna sadly. "That there was maids'-malice in the bouquet this morning... But there it was. I just _was_. You understand."

"Yes," said Neville bravely. Hermione wasn't sure if it was that he hid his bewilderment well, or if it really did make sense to him in some odd, unknowable way.

Luna gave him a last, sad smile, tiptoed to kiss him on the cheek, and then, without breaking Neville's gaze, took Zabini's hand and apparated.

The quiet in their aftermath was split by a loud cry as Neville's grandmother sank to her feet.

Neville paled and ran to her as she railed against Luna, dealing occasional blows toward Xenophilius with her cane. The crowd drew in to separate them. Pascal Zabini disappeared. Harry and Justin Finch-Fletchley appeared beside Neville to steady him, Pansy came up to Ron and gripped his hand with a curious expression on her face, and Ginny marched up to Hermione, who was still pole-axed.

"Come on," said the younger Weasley, with a resigned sigh. "Let's help put all this away."

"I don't know. Maybe we'd better see what Neville—?" Hermione had learned her lesson about asking.

"Good idea. Neville says this," said Neville, whom they'd walked into a second before. He fumbled for his wand, then carefully cast _sonorous_.

"Er, everybody—friends—look, I know this is all uncomfortable and strange," he said, hesitantly, out into the crowd and looking at nobody in particular. "But I—I hope you please don't hold it against Luna. As you can see I'm here and I—I can't say I'm too happy with what happened… But then I guess I'm also not _entirely_ surprised," he said, and the crowd murmured. "There was just a lot of a stuff that you don't know about. So really, don't hold it against her. You can't. You don't know anything." He did his best to look out rather sternly on the crowd. "Or you'll have to answer to me."

"What now?" someone yelled.

Neville looked embarrassed. "Well, I—" he paused, and looked at his Gran, who refused to meet his gaze. It seemed to make up his mind. "Well, I know we're all tired and confused," he said. "I think we could still have plenty to celebrate and enjoy, though. Let's not make all this go to waste. Luna wouldn't want it, either," he finished, suddenly decisive.

A roar of approval went up (led suspiciously from Fred and George's corner of the space), and Neville pinked.

"Ladies, if any of you ever had a thing for Longbottom, now's the time." The magically amplified drawl swept through the room to hoots and cheers before Hermione realized with surprise that it came from Malfoy, who was still there. Hannah Abbott catcalled rather audaciously. Neville blushed further and clapped the blond man beside on the back. Hermione couldn't decide who looked more surprised, herself, Harry, or Malfoy.

Suddenly, loud, upbeat strains of the Wyrd Sisters' "Break It Off, Break It Off" began playing over the assembly—which Weasley twin was responsible, Hermione would never know—and soon it was a lawn party to which Xenophilius could not dare object. He had the left the grounds already, anyway.

Hermione was on her third firewhiskey, contemplating reversals of fate, when someone suddenly grabbed her arm and began hauling her into the crowd.

"Ow! What—wait, _Pansy_?" They were still on awkward terms—friendlier for Ron's sake, but awkwarder for it too.

"Cram it, Hermione," Pansy said, carefully enunciating her name, as if Ron were there and ready to swoop on her efforts at any moment. She dragged her a few steps farther. "Look. There's Draco."

"What?"

Pansy sighed with loud exasperation. "Merlin, and you're supposed to be clever." Being with Ron had not made her less abrasive. "Didn't you notice _anything_ back there?"

"Notice what?" Contrary to what the brunette might think, Hermione did not enjoy feeling stupid, either.

Pansy ignored her. "Oh, spare me. Denial does leads to a lot of wasted money on misdirected wedding ceremonies," she said matter-of-factly. "Don't let's do it again. Hey! Draco!" She elbowed the much taller man and waited for him to turn around, then slipped off into the crowd.

Hermione's brain was going a million miles a minute.

"Granger? What?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

His hair was still scruffy from the earlier scuffle and he'd managed to get a scratch, somewhere during it all, on his cheek. He looked good, Hermione suddenly realized. He always looked good.

"I have no idea," said Hermione, suddenly understanding.

* * *

AN. 

Quote from my boyfriend, who has just been forced to start the series aged 29 with _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_:  
"It's funny how in the third book she's still trying to explain quidditch and the Ministry of Magic, etc... By the seventh book, she's just like _this is the zeitgeist, bitch_."

And so this is. :)

One more thing: **HAVEN is rebooting**. Yes. Don't go (re)read it now because I am massively overhauling the whole frigging edifice, and it is going to be an AWESOME thing.

belletrix out.

PS. Thanks, if you can, for leaving a review! :)


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